


it's all right (I know it's right)

by firstlightofeos, pearl_o, Red



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Begging, Canon Compliant, Coming Untouched, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Enthusiastic Consent, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, Gay Mutant Road Trip, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Pushy Bottoms, Rough Sex, Spanking, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 01:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5272016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstlightofeos/pseuds/firstlightofeos, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl_o/pseuds/pearl_o, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Erik and Charles happen across some new kinks, Erik has qualms. Charles helps him work through them.</p><p>(or: how Erik learned to stop worrying and rough up his pushy boyfriend)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because sometimes, you stay up late talking in tales chat--and seven months later, you wind up with nearly 15k of communally-written smut. 
> 
> Title thanks to our favorite album for these two, Fleetwood Mac's _Rumours_. 
> 
> We all hope you enjoy reading near as much as we loved writing this!

The first time is unintentional. 

They're in a shitty motel room somewhere in the middle of the country, drunk on the high of finding other people like them and on each other (and on a bit of alcohol, too), Charles pressing Erik against the door and kissing him within an inch of his life, as has been happening every night (and some mornings and afternoons) for the past week. 

After a few minutes, Charles pulls back, licking his lips—but before Erik can grab him and pull him back in to kiss that smug look off his face, Charles folds to his knees. He looks up at Erik through his lashes, licking his lips again, more deliberate this time. Erik finds himself torn between irritation and overwhelming lust—common emotions when dealing with Charles, something that's only grown worse since they've started sleeping together.

Charles's smirk doesn't leave his face as he leans in and undoes Erik's trousers, making quick work of the zipper and buttons and immediately drawing Erik's cock out. It's a nice change from Charles's usual teasing, where he takes _ages_ to so much as touch Erik's cock; but that just means that Erik doesn't really feel ready for Charles to suck him off just yet. As Charles leans in, Erik finds himself reaching down to hold him back, his thumbs pushing against Charles's temples. 

"Erik," Charles half-whines in a petulant tone Erik's never heard from him before. He tries to lunge forward for Erik's cock, but Erik is faster, his fingers tangling in Charles's hair to yank him back. 

Charles goes still, his eyes widening as he looks up at Erik. Erik releases Charles's hair as if burned. 

"I'm so sorry, I don't know what got into me," he starts, but Charles reaches up and grabs Erik's wrists, moving them so his hands are again resting on Charles's head. 

"I liked it," Charles says, his voice huskier than usual. "Do it again."

Erik blinks. Charles gives him a look, one of those challenging _get on with it_ looks, and it's suddenly easy for Erik to tangle his fingers in Charles's hair and pull, just a little. 

"Mm," Charles hums. "Harder." 

Erik complies, pulling Charles back further from his cock. It must not be enough for Charles, though, who tries to lean forward again, forcing Erik to tighten his grip to hold him in place. 

Charles moans, deep and low, his eyes fluttering shut. It's incredibly arousing; Erik's dick grows even harder, precome starting to bead at the tip. But Erik isn't sure what to do next. He wants Charles to suck his cock, of course he does, but this is...getting more complicated than that, and he has a feeling Charles would be disappointed if he just let go and let Charles suck him off. 

Fortunately, Charles seems to have ideas. 

"Erik," he says, his voice so quiet that Erik almost has to strain forward to hear, "I want your cock."

"Oh, you do, do you?" Erik says, raising his eyebrows. He's starting to see how he can get his revenge for all of Charles's teasing. 

Charles tries to nod, but Erik's still holding him fast. Erik can almost see Charles's pupils dilate as he realizes he can't move his head, that Erik's fully in control right now. "Yes," Charles says, finally. 

"And where would you like my cock?" Erik asks, thrusting forward just enough to bring the tip of his cock within millimeters of Charles's face. 

"In my mouth, you arse," Charles says, testy and impatient. 

"Hm," Erik says, leaning back and putting his cock back out of reach. Charles whines again and turns a pleading look on him. "I'm not sure I like that tone."

Charles looks up at him incredulously, but before Erik can let go, Charles relaxes and says, "I'm sorry, Erik."

"Better," Erik allows. He pulls Charles's head forward, his hands still tangled in his hair, until he's just shy of Erik's cock. "But not good enough."

Charles stops struggling against Erik's grip to look up at him with a look Erik can't decipher. "You...you wouldn't make me beg, Erik, would you?"

Erik has no idea how to respond; he's now very clearly in over his head. The tone of Charles's voice, however, and the slowly-building current of lust running through the room, suggest an answer. 

"I'm considering it," he says. "I'm not convinced you _really_ want my cock."

"I do," Charles says fervently, his eyes locking with Erik's. "Please, Erik, let me have your cock."

Erik says nothing, just looks down at Charles with what he hopes is a disinterested expression. 

"Please," Charles tries again, and then he starts babbling, "please, please, let me have it, I want it so badly, please, I want to suck your cock, please let me, Erik, please."

Erik suppresses his groan, though he can't help letting go of Charles with one hand so he can squeeze the base of his cock. He's more turned-on right now than he ever has been with Charles, and from the look Charles is giving him, he feels the same. 

Erik exhales to collect himself, and then, once he's sure he won't shoot his load the moment Charles touches him, he uses the hand still tangled in Charles's hair to move him so his head is just to the left of Erik's cock. 

"You really want it?" Erik asks. 

"More than anything," Charles gasps, trying to turn his head and failing as Erik tightens his grip. "Please."

Erik slaps his dick lightly against Charles's cheek. "Go on, then."

He relaxes his fingers just enough to allow Charles to turn and take the head of Erik's cock into his mouth, then tightens them again. Charles groans, the vibration around Erik's cock making him groan in turn. 

_Please_ , Charles says, with an imploring look that still manages to be effective when he has a dick in his mouth. _Let me have it._

"I'll give you as much or as little as I please," Erik says. "Convince me you deserve more."

A litany of pleading immediately starts up in Erik's head, even as Charles curls his tongue and presses the tip against the bundle of nerves just below the head of Erik's cock. Erik exclaims in surprise, a cross between a shout and a moan that quickly turns into full-on moans as Charles starts sucking. The combination of Charles begging Erik for his cock both mentally and physically is almost overwhelming, and Erik can't help pulling Charles slightly forward on his dick. 

Charles moans again, and it's even more arousing than before. 

_Yes_ , Charles says, _just like that, Erik, more, fuck my mouth, gag me with your cock, I want to feel it in my throat, please, please, more—_

"Fuck, Charles," Erik breathes, looking down at him with a mixture of wonder and disbelief. He has no idea where any of this is coming from, but he is so turned-on right now that he can't even begin to care. Charles looks up at Erik through his lashes, just an edge of smugness in his gaze, and any doubts Erik had about ramming his cock down Charles's throat are immediately dispelled as he clutches Charles's head in both hands and pulls him forward until the tip of his dick is just shy of the back of Charles's mouth. 

"This is what you want?" Erik says, his voice rough. "All of this, me fucking your mouth, your throat, you want to choke on my cock?"

 _Yes, yes, **please**_ , Charles says, his thoughts starting to fragment. Erik hesitates, just a moment, his grip relaxing instinctively—and then Charles surges forward and takes all of Erik down. 

"Charles," Erik groans. 

_Do it_ , Charles says, his hands coming up to curl around Erik's and hold them in place. He pulls back a little and then slams back down, choking a little. Erik pauses, not wanting to hurt Charles, but then Charles does it again. Erik doesn't feel any distress from Charles—if anything, he feels the exact opposite, but he doesn't want to _hurt him_ —

And then Charles pulls back and slams forward yet another time, and that's enough for Erik to snap. He fists his hands in Charles's hair, pulling hard, before shoving forward and starting to fuck Charles's mouth as requested—or, more accurately, demanded.

Somewhere around the fifth time Erik's cock slips into Charles's throat, Charles's thoughts start to grow incoherent, fragmented words mingled with lust and arousal and longing. Erik pulls back, concerned, but Charles whines, trying to push himself further forward, and Erik feels a sense of desperate need, driving him to keep going. 

So he does. He fucks Charles until Charles stops even so much as whimpering, he fucks Charles until Charles's thoughts are pure emotion, his arousal hanging heavy through the room and making Erik heady with it; Erik doesn't even stop when tears start to collect at the corners of Charles's eyes. In fact, Charles's tears only spur him further, until he's just holding Charles down on his cock and barely rocking back and forth before the world turns white and he comes down Charles's throat. 

When Erik comes back to himself, he hears Charles coughing, feels him holding himself up on Erik's thighs as he catches his breath. Charles glances up at Erik, and his face is tear-stained, his cheeks and eyes red. 

Erik sinks to his knees, suddenly overcome with shame; he should have known better, should have been more careful. He knew he was dangerous, knew he was a monster, and now he's proved it by hurting Charles. 

_Stop that right now_ , Charles says, casting him a baleful look. _You did what I asked you to do, and it was **wonderful** , and I loved every second of it._ He taps his temple. _Besides, I could have stopped you at any time if I'd wanted._

"You're not talking," Erik says. 

_My throat is just a **bit** sore_ , Charles admits, with a wry chuckle that immediately turns into a cough. 

"I am so sorry," Erik says, pulling Charles into his arms and marveling at Charles's lack of self-preservation. He should be pushing Erik away, not pulling him closer and resting his head on Erik's shoulder.

 _You have nothing to apologize for_ , Charles says sternly. _The only thing I regret about that entire thing is not taking off my pants before I came in them._

He casts a rueful look at his crotch; Erik follows his gaze to the spreading wet patch, and feels guilty for not even noticing. 

_Stop it_ , Charles admonishes. _Stop beating yourself up over imaginary things and hold me. We can talk about it later if you're still feeling guilty, but right now you're rather impinging on my afterglow._

Erik sighs and complies, his arms tightening around Charles as he leans them back against the door. He presses a kiss to Charles's hopelessly disheveled hair, his lips lingering; Charles exhales shakily before turning to kiss him deeply. 

As they kiss, Erik realizes: he doesn't taste his come. 

*****

Just because it happened once, Erik knows, doesn't mean it has to happen again. It might have been the single most arousing experience of Erik's life, and he can't argue with the evidence that Charles seemed to enjoy himself as well—however difficult it is to believe—but that doesn't mean anything is going to change. It was just...something that happened.

It's easy enough to tell himself that, and yet his mind seems unwilling to listen. All through the next day, Erik keeps getting distracted by flashes of memories every time he hears the hoarseness in Charles's voice. He has double vision at the most inopportune times, Charles's red and tear-stained face set over his everyday smiling countenance. It's arousing and mortifying, and Erik does his best to tuck it away deep and force himself to concentrate fully on everything in front of him.

That night when they reach the motel room, for the first time, Charles doesn't immediately push Erik back against the door. Instead, once he's shut it behind them, Charles leans back against it himself, gazing at Erik with heavy-lidded eyes. Erik stares back at him, heat rising up through his limbs, his cock already filling heavy between his legs.

"I've been wanting to be alone with you all day," Charles says, licking his lips.

"Is that so?" Erik says. "Did you have something in mind?"

Charles pushes himself off the wall, crossing the meter between them to coil himself around Erik's body, raising his arms to loop them around Erik's neck. "I could have sucked you off at the diner at lunch. I wanted to. I could have made it so nobody could see, you know. But I thought you might disapprove." 

Charles presses a kiss to the base of Erik's throat, between the open collar of his polo, and Erik's pulse jumps and his mouth goes dry. 

"In public?" Erik says. "In front of everybody?"

"Anywhere," Charles murmurs, mouthing still at Erik's skin. "Anytime. If you'd let me."

"You're that desperate for it, then," Erik says, succeeding at keeping his voice low and steady, if a little rough. "So eager. You're a slut for it, Charles."

 _Is that too much?_ Erik wonders immediately, a little worried that he's misread what Charles wants—but Charles doesn't even respond in words, just a spark of mental affirmation and a choked-off moan.

Charles reaches between them, groping for Erik's cock through his trousers in a manner that's clumsy compared to the usual skillfulness of his fingers. Erik grabs his wrist, holding him still, and it forces a harsh whine out of Charles.

"I told you, Erik," Charles says, looking up at Erik with pleading, puppy dog eyes, "I've been waiting _all day_."

Erik tightens his grasp on Charles's wrist. He has to trust Charles will tell him if he does something wrong, if he does something Charles doesn't want. So far, Charles hasn't. So far, Charles keeps pushing him further along, keeps pushing both of them further along, and Erik isn't entirely certain how much further there is to go. He wants to—he wants to pin Charles's hands behind his back, and so he does. He can hold both Charles's wrists in one hand, since Charles isn't making any effort to break his grip.

"You can wait a little longer," Erik says recklessly. "Until I decide to give it to you."

Charles's pupils are dark and wide. His entire face is flushed, all the way down his neck and past the collar of his shirt. They're both still fully dressed, they haven't even kissed yet, and it feels like they're already having sex.

"Erik," Charles says, elongating the vowel in unhappy protest.

"Don't pout," Erik says softly, but when Charles continues to make moon eyes at him, he relents. A little. He brings his free hand up to Charles's face, stroking down his cheek. "I don't think you deserve that yet," he explains as the tips of his two fingers drift over Charles's full red lips, "but you can have this."

Charles immediately opens up, moving his head forward to suck Erik's fingers in his warm, wet mouth. Erik lets him take them in all the way to the knuckle, but before the flutter at the entrance to Charles's throat can turn to a gag, Erik pulls his fingers back, leaving only the first inch or so inside for Charles to suck.

He can't look away from Charles. Charles holds eye contact at first, his uncanny blue eyes focused on Erik as he works his tongue against Erik's fingertips. He closes his eyes, though, once Erik takes control and begins to move his hand, fucking Charles's mouth properly with his fingers.

 _Yes_ , Charles chants softly, _yes, god, Erik, please, **more**_ —

When Erik releases his grip on Charles's wrists, Charles doesn't move—he keeps them tucked up behind his back, in the same position, without Erik even telling him to. Now that his hand is free, Erik can reach between them to fondle Charles's stiff cock through his trousers. It wrings a muffled noise out of Charles's full mouth.

Erik inhales sharply through his nose. He waits a moment, until he's sure that he's in control of his voice, that he can sound as unaffected as he needs to. "Are you going to spill in your pants again tonight, Charles?"

 _Don't_ , Charles says, eyes blinking open. _Erik, please._ The thrust of Erik's fingers has stopped as his focus has shifted to Charles's erection. Charles takes advantage of the pause to push his head forward almost violently to swallow the digits, before pulling back just enough to do it again. He's going to choke himself, Erik thinks, and there's concern in the thought but not as much as he knows he should feel, pushed down too far by both his own arousal and the desire that's pouring off Charles in waves.

Erik's powers unbutton and unzip Charles's trousers. Charles cries out unhappily when Erik abandons his mouth, but whatever complaint he's about to make is cut off as Erik carefully pushes his boxer shorts down to mid-thigh. His cock is standing straight up between the tails of his shirt, and as Erik wraps his spit-wet hand around the shaft, Charles goes very still and quiet.

"What do you want, Charles?" Erik says, not quite a whisper, as he begins to stroke. Charles's foreskin is still a novelty, and Erik stares at the way the loose skin glides, covering and uncovering the swollen red head. "What do you want me to give you?"

"Just kiss me," Charles rasps out, "please. Kiss me, Erik, let me come—"

Something aches queerly in Erik's chest, and he thinks he might be more confused than ever. "All right," Erik says, and he leans in slowly, finally letting their lips touch. 

Once again, Charles opens for him immediately, moaning into Erik's mouth. He keeps moving, however (even though he's managed to keep his wrists behind his back this entire time), until Erik has to force him to keep still with one hand fisted in his hair. A bright spark of approval emits from Charles's mind, and then a filthy, endless stream of mental words and suggestions. Erik kisses him harder, jerks him off faster, looking for that point where even Charles has to shut up—and he finds it, Charles's thoughts muddling into a wordless desperate glow that Erik wants to savor and prolong and, and, and _live in_ , perhaps, he doesn't _know_. 

But whatever it is, he doesn't manage to drag it out; the feeling's the prelude to Charles's orgasm, and it seems like only a few moments later that Charles jerks his head away from the kiss and Erik's taut grip, so his hair's being pulled as he starts to ejaculate, his hot come striping Erik's hand.

Erik almost freezes, sure he's tugging too hard. Charles cries out, his face wrenched up and tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, but there's no denying the persistent blaze of desire in his mind. So Erik just twists his fingers more tightly into Charles's hair, wrenching his head back even further so his neck arches, muscles corded in strain. Erik still can't look away. 

It seems like Charles comes for a long time, but even after he's done, Erik pumps his spent prick harder. Charles sobs, and Erik tries to ignore the jolt of pleasure that shoots through him. 

"This is what you wanted,” he says. His voice is steady—what is _wrong_ with him? He yanks Charles's hair, shaking him, and Erik is sure any minute now he'll be shoved away. "I'm giving you what you wanted, Charles.” His blood pounds, his cock is a lead weight, and he deserves to be shoved away. 

Charles opens his eyes—red-rimmed and watery—and stares up at Erik. 

"Yes,” he whimpers. "Yes,” and it has to hurt, what Erik's doing to his oversensitive cock, but Charles just stands there with his hands behind his back. "Thank you, Erik, thank you—” 

There's a perverse desire that lights up in Erik, realizing Charles _still_ isn't pushing him away. He should stop. This is mad. This is the last time they'll do this. So why not, that desire says, just push this until Charles _does_ flinch? 

He lets go of Charles's cock, ignoring his sigh of relief, and—before he can question himself further—he slaps Charles. He tries to pull the blow, to make it louder than it is cruel. It's still no gentle tap, and Charles gasps, swaying on his feet. Erik takes him by the shoulders, steadying Charles only to shove him to his knees.

"Don't whine,” he orders, getting one hand tangled back in Charles's hair to jerk his head back. The look on Charles's face—tear-tracked, bright red, the angry splotching where Erik slapped him—is _wrecked_. Erik wishes he could act on his guilt, that it didn't just make him _harder_. "Open your mouth.” 

Charles makes another soft, needy noise. Erik yanks at his hair once more before letting go, needing both hands along with his powers to get his cock out fast enough, as Charles licks his lips and relaxes his jaw impossibly wide. At this rate, Erik will be the one ruining his trousers. 

"Good,” he says, "Perfect. Stay, just like that.” 

He grips the base of his cock, punishingly tight, but by now anything—even pain—sends another pulse of arousal through him. Charles is shuddering, there's only the barest control over his powers, his desire sweltering in Erik's mind. 

He's going to come. Now. Before he's even fucking Charles. Erik groans, clenching his grip, trying to hold on. 

"That's good. You're so good for me, Charles. I'm going to give you what you want, now, you're being so good.” He's not even thinking, he's just trying to work up the simple coordination required to get his cock into Charles's mouth _right now_ , and that's when Charles leans forward. 

It's almost a relief, his breath hitching as he slaps Charles again with his free hand. 

" _No_ ,” he grinds out. Charles sobs, his mouth still open like he thinks he deserves Erik's cock, and Erik only has to pump himself in one long, rough stroke and he's done. 

He fights to keep his eyes open, though every second is _too much_. His balls clenching, his come hitting Charles across his cheeks in one long pulse before he tilts his chin, the way Charles's ribs heave like he's running a marathon as his mouth fills— 

Erik keeps working his cock, past what's comfortable. It's nowhere near what he did to Charles, but he can't seem to stop shuddering through little aftershocks, can't stop until he's milked everything out onto Charles's ruined face. _Fuck_ , he thinks, panting. "Fuck.” 

Charles says nothing as Erik staggers back. He kneels there, his mind vibrant with that addictive static of bliss, his mouth still obediently open—come thick on his tongue. Fuck. 

Reaching down, Erik cups Charles's jaw gently, slides a thumb through the mess. 

"You liked that?” he says, trying—and failing—to suppress the inflection at the end, to make it a statement. 

_yesyesyes_ , Charles broadcasts senselessly. Erik swipes at his come, pushing more into Charles's mouth, smirking at the noise Charles makes, the way his breath huffs desperately in and out of his nose. 

"Good,” Erik repeats, before he taps gently against Charles's cheek, where he slapped him. "You can swallow, then.” _If you want_ , he sends, wondering if Charles would really want to. Just because he's come down Charles's throat once, it doesn't mean it's something Charles wants to make a habit, and anyway it wasn't as if Charles had much choice in swallowing _then_. 

Charles slowly, carefully, closes his mouth. His throat bobs—a long and somehow exaggerated motion—as he swallows, and he licks his lips again when he's done. 

"Was that good?” he whispers, licking again at his lower lip, like he's chasing Erik's taste. 

Erik offers his hand, letting Charles lick his thumb clean. 

"Slut,” he says, affectionately. "I shouldn't spoil you like this.” 

_But yes,_ he thinks, smiling as Charles laps at his fingers, _you're very good_. 

*****

Erik's shower is longer and hotter than he normally takes, and he's half-expecting Charles to already be asleep by the time he exits the bathroom. But though Charles is curled up under the covers of one of the beds (the other one, across the room, holds both their suitcases), he's still awake, reading a book that he sets down on the nightstand when he looks up at Erik's approach.

Erik takes off his robe, hanging it over the armchair in the corner, and climbs into the bed beside Charles to lie down on his back. Immediately, Charles rolls over onto his side to face him.

"You're still worrying about it, aren't you," Charles says, the impatience crystal clear in his voice.

It's not precisely a question, which Erik takes as an excuse not to answer beyond a grunt at the ceiling.

Charles huffs out a breath. "Erik, if I like what we're doing and you like it, too, what is the problem?"

"I didn't say there was a problem," Erik says.

It does shut Charles up, though Erik's known him long enough by now to tell that he's merely simmering for a moment before getting ready to try again. Sure enough, a few seconds later, Charles speaks.

"It doesn't say anything about you, you know," Charles says. "As a person."

How Charles can sound so painfully earnest after what they just did—after what Erik just did _to_ him—Erik has no idea.

Charles sighs. He lays his cool hand on Erik's chest, then, playing idly with the hair until Erik turns his head enough to meet his gaze. Erik thought perhaps he'd still be able to see it, the red mark of his hand against Charles's cheek, but no: Charles looks just the same as he ever does, as he always has. 

"Listen to me, my dear," Charles says, in that firm tone of his that brooks no arguments and thus only makes Erik want to argue all the more. "I have seen inside the minds of any number of people, and I can assure you, what people get up to in bed—or even their imaginations—well. It has very little to do with anything else." A thoughtful pause. "Some people like feet, you know. Or exotic undergarments. I met a lovely lady at Oxford once who could only orgasm while she was being tickled. There were a great deal of feathers involved."

Erik snorts despite himself, the corners of his lips turning upwards, and Charles looks very pleased with himself.

"It just seems—" It's a struggle to find the correct words, when none want to come. Erik finally settles on, "It doesn't seem right." 

"Poppycock," Charles says decisively. He stretches up, pressing a gentle kiss to Erik's jaw. "I like it. I _love_ it, and I can tell perfectly well you do, too. Where is the problem?"

Erik is good at violence. He's been shaped to be that way. But this is different, isn't it? The people he's hurt deserved it, deserved his anger and vengeance. He didn't get off on any of that. There's no anger involved here with Charles, and Erik can't imagine doing any of it if Charles didn't (somehow, unfathomably) want it just as badly.

Erik doesn't regard what he does to be hesitating, but he does… consider for a bit, before he speaks. "You won't let me hurt you."

He must be picking up Charles's tricks, because it's another one of those not-quite-questions. 

Charles doesn't respond, as such, but the bright satisfied smile that breaks across his face is answer enough.

*****

Two nights later, Erik has Charles on his knees on the motel bed with three of Erik's fingers in his arse, working him open.

As much sex as they've had these last few weeks, they haven't done this many times. A handful of occasions, maybe, with Charles being penetrated, a few with the roles reversed. Mostly they've stuck to mutual masturbation and fellatio, or even just rutting up against each other until climax. Partly a matter of practicality, Erik supposes—none of those activities requires quite the time, patience, or supplies that this does.

It's _definitely_ not because they don't both enjoy it. And today was an exceptionally good day (another mutant found, and added to their slowly-growing team, probably en route to Virginia at this very moment). And Erik is feeling extraordinarily patient.

He's rather lost track of how long he's been fingering Charles. There was still a bit of sunlight sneaking in through the blinds as they disrobed, and the room is now dark except for the bedside lamp. Charles started out supporting himself with his hands on the mattress as well, but he's since given up enough to lay his head on his folded arms, face turned toward the pillow that muffles the moans that occasionally escape him.

Erik hasn't touched Charles's cock once. Nor has Charles even tried to touch himself. Erik wonders, beneath it all a little giddy, if he can make Charles come just from this, from Erik's fingers twisting and stroking him inside.

Another muffled moan from Charles, and then his voice reverberating through Erik's head. _You could, yes, but please don't. Want you in me. Christ, Erik, put it in already—_

The words stop abruptly, like a bubble being popped.

Erik stills his fingers. "You said you could keep quiet," he says softly.

Charles doesn't answer, but a small shudder runs through his entire body. Erik leans in, pressing a kiss to a small group of freckles on Charles's lower back as he tries to come to a decision. It only takes a few seconds.

Erik straightens back up, begins fucking Charles again with his fingers while he wraps his free hand around his own cock. He's been hard so long, been ignoring it so thoroughly to concentrate on Charles, that the sensation of being touched is almost a shock. He has to shut his eyes for a moment and bite back a groan before he can allow himself to talk.

"You said whatever I wanted today, Charles. However I wanted it." He's close already, stroking himself fast, staring down at the endless pale freckled skin on display before him. "And now you're making it about what _you_ want. You're spoiled, you know."

There's a brief flash of uncertainty and discomfort in Erik's mind, just long enough for him to wonder, but it's gone almost immediately, replaced with a newly insistent throb of desire from Charles.

"Spoiled," Erik repeats, gritting through his teeth now as he jerks off harder and lets his fingers in Charles comes to a stop. "You're too used to having things your own way, think you can always have it the way you want, don't you? You know that you can wrap us all around your little finger at the slightest effort?"

"Erik," Charles says—chokes out, really, and Erik can barely hear him, still half-muffled by the pillow. "Erik, please."

That's what sends Erik over the edge; he comes with a grunt, hunching over himself and watching his semen splatter across the flesh of Charles's perfect arse.

It takes Charles a moment to react. Erik's still breathing heavily, admiring the view, when Charles lets out a sound that only be described as a squawk of outrage.

"You bastard!" Charles says, his tone much more similar to his normal everyday one than Erik is used to hearing this far into their bedroom proceedings. "Did you just _come_? I don't believe you. Bloody cocksucking _bastard_ —"

It's hard not to chuckle. Erik doesn't entirely resist the urge, and Charles's cranky curses only increase as Erik removes his fingers from Charles and rolls him over to lie on his back. What does shut Charles up is Erik's mouth on his cock, though even then Erik can feel his annoyance warring with his pleasure, at least until the latter wins out completely, and he gives in, going boneless under Erik as Erik sucks him.

This at least is familiar, the warmth and pleasant pressure of Charles's cock as he takes him in, and for a moment he can very nearly forget about the strange dark turn their dalliances have taken. For a moment, anyway. He soon finds himself forcing Charles deep, quicker and more roughly than he'd normally. He pulls back just as soon as he tries it, swallowing hard to try not to cough or gag, no closer to understanding why Charles enjoys that sort of treatment. 

One of Charles's hands rests lightly on his head, not pushing or guiding at all. Charles relaxes so completely into his pleasure, his mind radiating pure indulgent joy. Erik can't help but feel impossibly fond as he swallows him down, as Charles comes with a soft, gratified sigh. 

Once Charles's prick is soft, Erik lets it slip from his mouth again, and he moves up the bed a little to lay his head on Charles's belly. He knows from past experience that it's a surprisingly comfortable place, the ever-so-slight softness a perfect pillow. He presses a dry kiss to the soft, sweaty skin next to Charles's navel and closes his eyes. After a moment, Charles's hand comes to rest on the nape of his neck, thumb stroking small, steady circles.

Part of Erik wants to recoil from the tenderness he feels, the soft waves of telepathic communication that Charles can't be bothered to put into words. A bigger part of him wants to bask in it, and it's that part that seems to be winning. For now, at least.

They should move to the other bed at some point, too, this one sticky and mussed and uncomfortable now, but even that thought is oddly distant. As if for once in his life, Erik is not considering or planning or working at anything at all. 

Charles sighs again. Erik gropes, a little clumsily, for the nearest part of Charles to his hand (which turns out to be his calf) and squeezes gently.

"Erik..." Charles starts to say. There's a seriousness to his voice, a hesitation, that Erik isn't expecting; his pulse starts to quicken without his permission.

He keeps his eyes closed. "What?"

"Did you mean that? What you said, before." Charles's hand has moved up, cradling the back of Erik's skull in his palm. "Do you think me spoiled?"

Of all the outrages he's performed on Charles, _this_ is what gives Charles pause. Beyond opening his eyes, Erik doesn't move. It is tempting—painfully so, the ache familiar and pressing—to create that distance. To get away from whatever this is building between him and Charles, but he resists. 

Charles waits, his hand still light on Erik's head, the rise and fall of his chest measured. 

There's no faking ignorance, Erik thinks, and he's already been quiet too long to attempt distracting Charles from the topic. It takes a long time for words to come.

"You know what you want. You're not harming anyone else,” Erik says, bluntly. He refrains from emphasizing the ‘else' _too_ much. "What's the shame in taking?”

"Hmm," Charles says. His fingers begin stroking through Erik's hair, obnoxiously, wonderfully gentle. "I don't know that that's quite it. I suppose—I suppose I just don't want you, of all people, to see me in such a way."

"In which way?" Erik can feel his own frown deepen, scowling against the pale skin of Charles's torso. He should be looking at Charles's face, perhaps, but that seems terribly intimate at this moment.

"I don't know. Poor little rich boy, I suppose. Selfish. Entitled. Disconnected. All the things I imagine you would hate."

This conversation is unbearable. Why must Charles insist on _talking_ about this?

"The way I see you," Erik says. The words come out slowly, one at a time. "You're strong, Charles. Powerful. And I...admire that about you," he finishes, a little lamely.

Charles is silent for several seconds, his fingers still again upon Erik's head, before he says, very quietly, "I'm touched, Erik. Thank you."

As a response, it doesn't lessen Erik's agitation any. There is nothing to thank Erik for; it's simply the truth. Charles is strong in a way Erik never dreamed of, and it thrills him to see that power be put to a cause like theirs—to the cause of mutants, their people. It thrills him to have that strength beside him.

And—yes—to have it in his bed, as well.

Charles can take anything he wants, Erik thinks again, the thought striking him with a new and sudden clarity, and what he has taken is...this. _This_ is what he wants.

It's a revelation that seems so abrupt, Erik would think there's no way Charles wouldn't react. But he keeps stroking through Erik's hair, his movements still aimless and gentle, as if he's not listening in at all. Erik lets the moment draw out a little longer, lets himself linger in the soft glow of Charles's affection, before he sits up. 

Sprawled out beside him, Charles is nothing less than perfection—his cheeks still flushed, his lips still unnaturally red, the strength in those thighs and arms still apparent even in lassitude—and Erik would consider saying something more. But he's already revealed more than enough, he thinks, for one night. 

Instead, he leans down to kiss Charles once again, a kiss that's likely more telling than any words. When they break for air, he looks away. 

"You'd probably like to wash up,” he says. 

Charles laughs. _Of course_ , he sends, and Erik isn't surprised to be tugged into another long kiss before Charles heads to the bathroom.


	2. Chapter 2

The next few days on the road are trying enough that it leaves little time or energy to address the simple revelation of that night. After all, it's not as if Charles's proclivities in bed have terribly much to do with his actions out here, fighting for their cause; and if Charles once perhaps said the same held true for Erik, well, Erik supposes he can be wrong once in a great while. It's not as if what he shares with Charles isn't something new in this world, something earth-changing and powerful. 

Now and then, in a restaurant or from the passenger seat or from across a hotel bar, Charles will be staring at him with a new sort of hunger. Even if they weren't running from one refusal to another, Erik imagines he might have had the strength to let Charles wait for it _anyway_.

All the same, he knows it's a rare pleasure for Charles to be caught unawares. When Charles starts misbehaving so utterly in a strip club, Erik can tell immediately he doesn't anticipate a response, champagne and the arousal of strangers doing little for Charles's already-woeful self control. 

What starts out as hungry looks escalates quickly. He sets his hand on Erik's knee while they're waiting for their mutant to notice him, and within a minute it begins inching up his thigh. 

Erik shoots him a warning glance. _Be good_.

Charles laughs. "Darling, I'm the best,” he says, with an extravagant wink. He licks his lips, and it looks—filthy. Gorgeous. Erik can't look away from his mouth.

 _Anywhere, anytime_ , Charles had said once. Erik had assumed at the same time that it was simply dirty talk, but he's not so sure about that now. If he sat back now, scooted out his chair and spread his legs, he thinks Charles would crawl right in that space, eager and excited.

Erik doesn't allow himself to shift or move, but something glimmers in Charles's eyes anyway.

"You should be careful,” Erik says in a low voice. He wraps his fingers around Charles's wrist, squeezing tightly to emphasize his words, and Charles's mouth falls open, a little slack as he looks down at Erik's hand holding him still. Open, and wet, and _fuck_ , Erik's hard now, and he has to remind himself of what he has planned instead of giving in.

"Or else what?” Charles says finally. There's something thrilling about having stunned Charles silent, if only for a moment or two; Erik takes a bit of pride in it. However Charles might have expected Erik to react, it wasn't like this.

Erik smiles at him, letting his teeth show, the same smile he gives to men he wants to intimidate or frighten. Neither intimidation nor fear has any relation to Charles's response. Erik squeezes even more firmly, hard enough that he imagines he can almost hear the creak of Charles's bones, before he moves Charles's hand back to his own leg.

"You'll see later,” Erik says.

The only way they survive the evening is from the bright promise of meeting another mutant. Even then, Erik is almost certain the only reason Charles doesn't get them one of the private booths alone and _without_ a show is because he must sense this time they'll actually be successful in their recruitment efforts. 

And even _then_ , Charles finds a way to push again. Erik would think it's charged enough, that Charles could behave at least long enough to convince Angel that they aren't actually complete perverts. 

Perhaps that's exactly what Charles intends, when he gives her that little display of his powers. Erik might be able to admit the tactical advantage of the projected image, but when Charles silently lets him in on the joke and shows Erik the image of himself in a cocktail dress and wig—when Angel turns away to show her own powers, Erik meets Charles's gaze for a moment. 

It's only a matter of seconds. But when Charles looks away, Erik can see the faint flush (easily excused by champagne and excitement, he hopes) across the bridge of his cheeks. 

_Act however you please_ , Erik presses at him, _there's work to do now. But remember, I'll be seeing to you later._

There's a slight, almost imperceptible hitch in Charles's breath. Erik can only tell because of how close he's sitting, how intensely familiar he is with Charles's body. 

Charles doesn't send anything back, and Erik knows he should focus as well, but he can't help projecting one last thing before he does. 

_Be good for me, Charles, and you'll get what you're asking for._

Charles will hold him to it, Erik knows, and he allows himself a last private dip into his own desire before he pushes it down enough to concentrate. 

It probably says something that Charles is able to be this distracting, even now—Erik wouldn't have imagined anything could be as important as this, as finding these other mutants, as collecting together this team to work and fight. And for the next hour or so, talking and discussing with Angel their plans and possibilities, it almost does manage to be the only thing on his mind.

Almost. Not quite. That thread, that link between him and Charles, is only buried skin-deep, and Erik's reminded of that every time they share a glance. And the moment they say goodbye to Angel and step outside the club—the instant the work is done for the night, really—everything they've tamped down comes back, full flame.

Charles hasn't _said_ anything, hasn't touched Erik, hasn't made any obvious suggestions. But the hungry looks are back, more obvious and lingering than ever, and Charles won't stop licking his red, red mouth. Who licks their lips that much? Who plays with their bottom lip between their teeth like that constantly, getting it all shiny and slick? 

The two of them get half a block down the street before Erik has to take action. There's an alley just ahead of them; Erik grabs Charles by the upper arm and shoves him in as they reach it. Charles stumbles a little over his own feet, but Erik is right behind him, pushing him forward until Charles's back hits the hard brick of the wall. Erik keeps pushing, even then, his body holding Charles's, a firm, steady cage. He likes the advantage his height gives him in this position, the way Charles's neck has to crane slightly to meet his gaze.

It's dark here, almost private, tucked away from the streetlights along the road. But Erik can still make out every detail of Charles's features, the way the desire and excitement pass across his face.

Erik twists a little, gets his thigh between Charles's legs. He relaxes his hold for just a moment, long enough for Charles to get in one good thrust, rubbing his dick up with a sigh of pleasure. The sigh is good to hear. The small noise of disappointment when Erik stops him again might be even better.

"I could take you right here," Erik says. His voice is quiet and low, and he sounds perfectly in control. "Push you to your knees in the dirt, fuck your mouth right here, fucking _ruin_ you." 

He's not sure exactly where the words are coming from, but they're the _right_ words.

"Yes," Charles breathes, glassy eyes fixed on Erik.

"But I won't," Erik continues. "You have to wait, you greedy slut."

The near-silent hitch in Charles's breath—now that, Erik thinks, is perfection. Then Charles starts struggling against his grasp, fighting to rut against Erik's thigh. 

"Please,” Charles whispers, looking up at him. 

Erik's mouth is dry. He's itching to shove Charles down. The image arises unbidden in his mind. How easily Charles would fold for him, even here. Charles on his knees, dirtying his suit in the filth. Charles unzipping Erik's fly and drawing him out and letting him sink deep, Charles letting himself be choked with it. Charles gagging on him, the fluttering grip of the back of his throat, working hard and fast to get Erik to flood his mouth, _quick, please, no one will see, we're alone, Erik **please**_ —

Erik's hold relaxes again for a heartbeat, and Charles thinks _yes, oh Erik_ at him. And Charles starts to kneel, and Erik doesn't know how he's still standing himself. All his blood rushes to his cock, his balls already tightening as he stares at Charles's bright mouth, at the little flick of tongue against the plush curve of his lower lip. Debasing Charles in an alley, brutalizing him where anyone could see—it's almost horrifying how much he wants it, how much he's _letting himself_ want it. 

But there's a difference between desire and action. He might want Charles like this, there might be nothing better than showing the world how desperate and cock-hungry Charles Xavier truly is, but honestly.

He grabs Charles's wrists again and slams him against the wall, hard enough for Charles to grunt in pain. 

"Honestly, Charles,” Erik purrs, keeping Charles pinned against the brick, "here?” 

Charles is still squirming, still shoving desire and over-vivid images into Erik's mind. 

"Yes, here, God—it'll be fine, Erik. No one's here, and if anyone comes by, it's not like we'd be caught,” Charles rambles, his voice rough and pleading. "You know I can take care of it, Erik. 

"Erik?” he whines again, when he doesn't get a reply. He's fighting to twist out of Erik's grip. Charles is strong enough that Erik has to work to keep him standing, and the way he's fighting so hard _to be face-fucked_... "Erik, _please_ , I'll be so—"

Only the confidence of having struck him before (the memory of how Charles _loved_ it, and how fast the mark faded) lets Erik move. 

He releases Charles abruptly and steps back. Charles takes it as an invitation, but he only has a second of triumph before Erik raises his hand and slaps him, right out in the open, loud and harsh in the dark of the alley. 

Charles cries out, and Erik feels the now-familiar _rush_ of arousal. He watches as Charles staggers back, gasping, clearly trying not to come in his pants. Erik gives him a moment—no sense ruining Charles's suit just yet—before he yanks him close once more. 

"If we're doing this properly, you won't be able to focus,” he whispers. "Now, just be good for me, and I'll let you choke on my cock when we get to the hotel.”

Charles closes his eyes, breathes in heavily—Erik can feel the way he's practically shuddering against him. It would be so easy, Erik thinks again, so easy to give in. 

But it's going to be even better if he makes them wait, and does it properly.

After an endless few seconds, Charles opens his eyes once more. "Can I take that as a promise, then?"

" _If_ you're good, I said," Erik reminds him.

Charles smiles, slow and soft and sly. Debauched and innocent at the same time; how does he do it? He looks like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He looks like Erik should be making him gag.

"Perhaps we should make our way back to the hotel, in that case."

Erik quite agrees. But he doesn't feel inclined to let Charles have the last word, so he pulls him in even closer, just long enough to press one short, vicious kiss against Charles's ridiculous mouth before he releases him completely and steps back.

Charles runs a hand through his mussed hair, straightens his suit, blows out a soft breath. Erik watches him silently as the man who begged him so desperately just a minute ago is hidden away, a public presence back on the surface for everyone else to see. How strange is that, how satisfying, that the layers of wonder that make up Charles are something only Erik gets to access? 

It's an oddly sentimental thought, especially when its subject is someone Erik just struck in the face and insulted. He's not sure he'll ever understand how this sweetness and this violence can coexist in him, in what he feels...but he doesn't need to understand, does he? Not when it works this well for them. He can leave those certainties to Charles and his easy arrogances and assurances. He can trust his instincts, his control, his pleasure and Charles's.

He lets Charles leave the alley first, following a few feet behind as they make their way to the car. Erik is glad now that the car is already rented, that they are already checked into their hotel. This whole evening has been a tease. He's in no mood to interact with a single other person, or to wait any longer.

They're both quiet as they reach the car. Erik takes the driver's seat, of course—he always drives—and Charles folds himself into the passenger seat. Erik tries to keep his attention on the road, on the metal of the car, on everything except Charles warm and soft and inviting and right there beside him, but of course that's a losing battle. They're only a few minutes' ride from the hotel. He's aware every time Charles breathes, every time Charles shifts ever-so-slightly.

It's as if even his powers are turning against him. Charles's warmth seeping into the springs of the cushion, the light press of his arm against the car door...Erik is so hyper-aware he can even feel the iron in Charles's blood without effort. 

Thanks to the hour, the roads are blessedly quiet. They make it to the hotel in a few minutes, but for Erik, it may as well have been ages. Charles spends the ride with that innocent expression fixed in place, his fingers tracing idle patterns over the car door, too slow and sensual to be anything but a tease.

Erik pulls into the parking space directly in front of their room. He doesn't look at Charles as he parks, as he gets out of the car. He doesn't look as he unlocks the hotel room door with an easy wave of his powers. He can sense Charles behind him, following closely. 

When Charles steps in, Erik closes the door behind him and locks it, and only then does he turn. 

Charles is smiling faintly, his chin raised high. Erik catches his gaze and holds it, long enough for the smile to start to fade into something darker, hungrier.

"Was I good?" Charles says, words breaking into the still, charged air between them. Erik can't help but watch the way his hands curl up by his sides, nails digging into the fabric of his trouser legs.

"You were," Erik says slowly, and then, as Charles starts to relax and take a step forward, "but I think I've changed my mind."

Charles pauses mid-step, frowning. "You're joking," he says, and his voice sounds firm, but his eyes are searching Erik's face as if he's not so sure. 

Erik raises his eyebrow. "Does it seem like I'm joking?"

Charles steps forward again, crossing the distance separating them; Erik stays where he is, letting Charles be the one to come to him. Charles stops directly in front of him, and he looks up and down Erik's body for a long moment before moving his gaze back to Erik's face. He reaches his hand out to Erik's shoulder, and then slides it down the length of Erik's arm, a light brush of his fingers until he reaches Erik's wrist.

"You know I want to suck your cock," Charles says. "Do you want me to beg for it? I would. I will. I'll do anything, Erik."

His hand moves quickly, from Erik's wrist over to his cock. Charles lets out a hiss of breath as his fingers tighten around Erik's erection, and Erik bites his own lip to keep from doing the same. 

"You're so hard. Let me, Erik, _please_ —"

"I don't want you to suck me off," Erik interrupts. "I want to fuck you."

Charles's hand tightens, a quick involuntary motion. 

It's true they've not done this terribly often, that Erik's never been anything but cautious (and perhaps, if he's being honest, worshipful) with Charles when they have. 

This will be something utterly different. Erik raises his eyebrows at Charles, unable to refrain from asking in some small way, _is this okay, tell me to back down and I will_. 

Charles breathes out audibly. His touch skims upward, so he's shoving at Erik's jacket. 

"God, Erik,” he says, his hands clumsy as he tries to get Erik undressed, "yes, _please_.”

Erik's jacket falls to the floor behind him in a crumpled mess, completely unlike the usual care he takes with his clothing, the waistcoat following a moment later. Charles tugs his shirt out of his pants, palms smoothing over Erik's chest helplessly for a moment before he starts on the buttons. His hands are unsteady enough that it takes him three tries to get the final button undone.

It's only when Charles's hands get to Erik's belt that Erik shoves him away. He's not quite as violent as he was earlier in the alley, but it's still forceful enough to make Charles lose his balance and stumble back. 

"Strip off your clothes and get on the bed, Charles," Erik says.

Charles's face is—it's lit up with pleasure and anticipation and trust and hunger, all at the same time. The emotions are bleeding over from his mind ever-so-slightly, like a cup filled to the brim. That's only going to get more intense as they go on—as long as Erik does this right.

Charles undresses quickly, with a completely unselfconscious grace. "On my back?” Charles asks, sharing an image—lying on the edge of the mattress while Erik stands, Charles's legs hiked up over Erik's shoulders while Erik thrusts into him.

Tempting, but… "Hands and knees," Erik says.

At that, Charles shivers, just a little. Nerves or excitement, likely both. His mind is overflowing with arousal, and Erik wants nothing more than to grab him, to throw him on the bed, to start fucking him as brutally as he's asking for. 

"Charles,” he says, warning, and the barrage of suggestions and fantasies tampers back down. Erik starts focusing on his cufflinks—which Charles, of course, forgot—and tries not to stare as Charles wordlessly climbs on the bed. 

It's not exactly graceful, Charles hurrying to get into position, knees slightly apart, his hands rucking the coarse comforter, his head hanging down. Erik can't help looking his fill, now that Charles isn't watching. 

Though, with the view—Charles's firm thighs spread, his freckled shoulders and biceps tensed, his back arched to put his gloriously round arse on display—Erik supposes there's nothing that would keep him from staring, now. He shrugs off his shirt, folding it absentmindedly. Charles's lower back dips, just a little more, and it's nothing less than _pornographic_. 

How easy it would be, Erik thinks as he silently pulls his belt from the loops, to just unzip his trousers. To get his cock out, to shove into Charles just like this. Not even undressing fully, not letting Charles prepare for it, not even saying a word, and it's a brutal and horrible thought but _fuck_ it makes his blood pound. 

_And Charles would let him_. The thought is disorienting, something—desire, anger, affection, he doesn't even know—twisting low in his stomach. 

When Charles starts to shift impatiently, Erik shakes himself. Of course, he can't fuck Charles _that_ cruelly. But as he starts to loosen his watch, an idea occurs to him. 

"Two minutes,” he says, disinterested as he can manage. 

Charles twists to stare at him. 

"What?” 

"I think you've already proven how easy you are, Charles. Two minutes is all it should take to get yourself prepared.” 

Charles continues to stare at him for a few seconds, his mouth hanging open.

"Clock's ticking," Erik reminds him.

Charles shakes his head, as if clearing it. "Right." He scrambles over to the edge of the bed, stretching himself out to reach the top drawer of the nightstand and pull it open with a rough jerk.

Erik toes off his shoes and socks and steps out of his trousers. He folds those, too, setting them atop his shirt.

"Where on earth is the bloody Vaseline?" Charles mutters across the room. 

Erik can't help the smile that comes at the sound of Charles's exasperation.

A triumphant "ha" follows a second later. Charles throws himself back onto the mattress, his hard cock bouncing up against his belly. He digs his fingers into the tub of Vaseline and draws his knee up high—for just an instant Erik has the perfect view of that small hole, and then Charles is pushing two wet fingers deep inside.

Erik is down to his underwear now. He holds the flat of his palm against his erection, a firm, steady pressure through the thin fabric, as he watches. He can't tear his eyes away as Charles works himself, fingers pumping rough and fast. 

Erik wants to lick the flexing tendons of Charles's inner arm every time they move. He wants to bite that pale stretch of belly just below his navel. He wants to trace his name in Charles's freckles and leave a mark. 

He wants to fuck Charles more than he wants anything else in the world right now. 

Erik's not used to wanting things. Not things that aren't revenge, at least.

Charles grunts loudly as he pushes in a third finger. His eyes are locked on Erik, too, have been the whole time. He's putting on a show, Erik realizes. Getting off on it.

"That's enough," Erik says roughly.

Charles just twists his fingers in deeper, one knee pressing tight against his chest in a clear tease. 

"Hasn't been two minutes,” he purrs, tilting his chin back, showing off the long flushed lines of his throat and pretending to ignore Erik. 

And he's right—Erik's still tracking the tick of his watch's second hand, and there's a little over a half-minute left—but if Charles is just going to waste that time…

Erik reaches down and grabs at Charles's wrist. 

"I said, that's enough.” 

"So do it already," Charles says. He's shaking just a little in Erik's grip, and Erik can feel the wild thrum of Charles's pulse racing beneath his fingertips. "What are you waiting for, I'm ready, I've been ready since you first looked at me, what are you waiting for—"

Erik doesn't recognize the sound that escapes from his own mouth. He releases his grip on Charles, and between them they quickly, awkwardly, flip Charles onto his front, braced on his hands and knees.

Erik shoves down his underwear. The first touch of his hand to his naked cock is almost overwhelming, after being so aroused for so long, and he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning. He grabs the Vaseline, coats himself fast and perfunctorily before tossing the tub away again, and then his hands are on Charles's arse, holding him open, and he's pushing inside.

Charles is tight, too tight, maybe, but Erik is relentless. He would stop if Charles asked him, he reminds himself, if Charles wanted him to, he's not a monster—but Charles doesn't ask. Instead, Charles just moans, loud and bone deep.

"Don't come," Erik rasps out.

He's not sure if he's talking to himself or Charles. Sunk in completely, shoved up against Charles's arse, he has to freeze. Charles is so tight, tight enough it's almost painful for _Erik_. And Charles keeps clenching, and fuck, Erik would think it must be agonizing for Charles. 

But it's not. Erik almost comes just from that, from how reckless Charles's mind has gone, the barriers he usually keeps up utterly eroded. Everything Charles is feeling—how huge Erik is, how good even the pain is, how he loves being split open—it's like it's happening to Erik, too. 

It takes a long time to be sure he won't come the second he moves, long enough that the ecstatic frenzy of Charles's thoughts starts to turn impatient and Charles starts to writhe back against him, just a little. Erik digs his fingers into the curves of Charles's hips, rough enough to bruise, and pulls back. 

He shoves in again, so hard that Charles scrambles to catch himself, so hard that his thighs slap loudly against Charles's arse. The sound Charles makes, sharp and breathless, only makes Erik want _more_ , and he's thrusting again before Charles can find his balance. 

It's a punishing rhythm. He's fucking into Charles full-body, using all his strength and all the leverage he can get kneeling up on a cheap hotel mattress. They've so rarely had sex this way, and never like _this_. Every time he penetrated Charles before, he'd spent what seemed like ages fingering him. He'd never have dreamed of using Charles's body like this. 

From the way Charles is reacting, it seems as if perhaps he _should_ have. 

Charles is groaning with every thrust and fumbling to shove back, like he just wants Erik to fuck him _harder_. Even though Erik's already fucking him raw, even though he's already fucking hard enough that Charles can feel his arse getting bruised by Erik's bony hips, Charles is still so _greedy_ , so desperate for it that he's uncoordinated and sloppy and soon can't even hold himself up, pitching forward onto the bed. 

It takes about one second of fucking Charles as he lies belly-down on the mattress before Erik realizes how long _that_ would last. He reaches up to wind his fingers through Charles's hair and gives a brief, warning tug. 

"Get up.”

Charles doesn't say anything; he just _writhes_ , his powers casting out a wordless command for Erik to _move, damn it_ , and Erik pulls out completely. 

The whining sob Charles makes, the way he cries out Erik's name—Erik knows it's far less about how hard Erik's yanking at his hair, and more about how he doesn't have a cock in him. 

"I told you to get up,” he says. "Hands on the headboard. Now.” 

Charles moans and makes an abortive movement toward following Erik's command, but in the end doesn't move from his position flopped on the bed. 

"I'm not going to ask a third time," Erik says firmly, and he untangles his hand from Charles's hair, backing away, even though every cell in his body is screaming at him for even thinking of doing anything besides surging forward and _burying_ his cock in Charles's arse. 

Charles seems to feel the same way; Erik's hit with an overwhelming wave of desire, of need, a full-body sensation that intensifies the further Erik backs away. It's an effort to push it away, to not just submerge himself within Charles, but it only takes a second or so before Charles backs off, just a little. 

"Charles," Erik grits out, his tone warning. "You have five seconds before I get out of this bed and"—he was initially planning to say he'd finish himself off in the bathroom, away from Charles, but then he has a better idea—"go find someone else, someone who's better-behaved."

Charles's moan, and the emotions accompanying it, are equal parts arousal and protest. He and Erik both know it's an empty threat—there's no way Erik can make it even a few steps in his trousers without coming, and more than that, there's no one he could ever want more than he wants Charles right now, wordless, wanton, utterly lost to his desire for whatever the hell this thing they're doing is, for _Erik_. 

But empty or not, it gets the job done; with a sob of effort, Charles scrambles up inelegantly and clutches the headboard like he's holding on for dear life. Erik reaches out and strokes a hand possessively, approvingly, down his side. 

"Stay there," he orders, as his hand moves down to play with Charles's arse, squeezing and pinching. 

When he moves to start tracing around Charles's red, red hole, Charles groans and thrusts his hips backward, nearly falling again. _Yes, Erik, I will, I'll be good, I promise, just please—!_

Before he realizes what he's doing, Erik's hand comes down on Charles's arse with a loud _crack_. Charles gasps, and they both freeze. 

Erik doesn't need to ask if Charles is okay—his desire is a high-pitched, whining thing in Erik's mind, almost all-consuming in its intensity. But he needs a moment for himself, gazing at the red imprint of his hand on Charles's cheek, to decide what _he_ wants. 

Of course, then Charles moves his hips, pushing them back toward Erik and swaying ever so slightly, practically begging for more, and Erik has no choice but to spank him again. 

"You're incorrigible," Erik says, as his hand comes down. Charles whines and shifts his arse again, and they set into a kind of rhythm as Erik continues speaking, the smacks echoing through the room. "You say that all the time, that you'll be good, but then you keep pushing, and pushing, until I have no choice." Erik's free hand reaches out to grab Charles's hair, yanking him backward as Charles gasps, though his hands never leave the headboard. "Good," Erik says, squeezing his arse. "Stay there, that's a good boy." 

" _Erik_ ," Charles breathes, the first full word he's said aloud in the past several minutes. "Erik, _please_."

"So desperate for it," Erik murmurs, and Charles nods desperately—or as much as he can, with Erik's fingers still buried in his hair. Then Erik lets go and sits back, allowing himself a moment to just...appreciate the picture in front of him. Charles is beautiful like this, his knuckles white on the headboard, his arse red from Erik's hand, completely and utterly lost in sensation, his thoughts bleeding everywhere, a haze of _yes—want—please— **Erik**_. And Erik's the one who made him like this, this is all because of him. 

He's never felt so powerful and so vulnerable, all at once. 

"Look at you," Erik says, shaking his head, "just look at you, you're so—"

He can't finish the sentence; it's getting too close to all these complicated swirling feelings about Charles that he can't put a name to or sort through at the best of times, let alone when he's having so much trouble putting any coherent thought together. He shares the picture with Charles, though, exactly what he looks like right now, and Charles sucks in his breath.

Erik soothes a hand down Charles's shaking back, down his hip and his flank. Charles is waiting for another slap, he thinks, and that's why Erik doesn't give it to him, keeps his touch gentle instead. He sinks his cock back into Charles's arse, steady and relentless, neither hard nor gentle. Once he's fully seated he drapes his body over Charles's, chest-to-back, letting Charles feel his weight.

He kisses Charles's sweat-slick shoulder. "You want it so badly," Erik murmurs against his skin. "Would you let anyone do this to you? Spread your legs for anybody with a big enough cock and beg for it?"

Neither of them is expecting how loudly Charles groans at that. An image comes to Erik's mind—going out to some bar, some club, finding a stranger to come back and fuck Charles while Erik watches. Watching someone else fold Charles's thighs back up against Charles's chest or slapping that face, seeing Charles swallow somebody else's cock down his throat. It's not at all something Erik would ever want in reality—he doesn't want Charles to be with anyone but him—and for that matter, he would never let anybody hurt Charles, not even the way Erik hurts him. So it's ridiculous, really, for the fantasy to be as arousing as it is.

 _Just you_ , Charles says. _Don't need anybody else, if you would only **move already** —_

Erik huffs out a laugh. It's more breathless than he would like, not as controlled, but he's not going to last much longer. He's surprised it's been this long already. He straightens up, settling his hold back onto Charles's hips, and he does exactly what Charles wants, fucking him as hard and thoroughly as he can.

Every thrust sends the headboard forward, rattling against the thin hotel room wall. Charles is making more noise than Erik's ever heard from him before, wordless groans and keens of pleasure and encouragement.

It's a constant, almost embarrassing racket. The creak of the bedsprings, the knock of the headboard, the clatter of the bedside lamp, the slap of skin against skin, and all that _noise_ Charles is making with every brutal thrust—were there any occupants in the rooms beside theirs, Erik is sure they would have called the police by now. 

Little matter if they did, he thinks, gritting his teeth as he fights to keep up force of his fucking. His fingers tighten into Charles's skin, hooking onto him like claws, like they're nothing better than animals. He _knows_ the motel is almost abandoned, there's no change in the metal he senses beyond these walls, but _fuck_ the thought is like fire in his blood. Imagining the discovery, how far he'd go to keep Charles safe, even if it meant losing him—he groans, his balls tightening. He's so close, and he's probably lucky Charles is far enough gone to not notice the violence in his thoughts. 

Charles is too far gone to notice much of anything. He's completely insensate, his frenzied desire pulsing through Erik's mind, his breath coming in ragged panting moans. His neck and shoulders and all down his back, he's sweaty and flushed a shocking red; his arms are corded with the strain of keeping himself upright. To push Charles this far, to be the one to break him down, it's at once humbling and incredibly arousing. 

All of the poise and control he's used to seeing is gone now. He wonders if Charles can sense _anything_ beyond getting fucked. 

He slams into Charles hard, off-rhythm, forcing the headboard to bang into the wall. Charles yells, sharp and loud. 

"And you thought you could ‘take care of it' in the alley,” Erik pants, still pounding into Charles's arse. "Well, everyone can hear you now. They all know what a noisy, greedy whore you are—" 

Charles sobs, a breathless ecstatic sound. Erik still doesn't know where these words are coming from, but _they work_ , and he can't stop talking.

"Can you stop it now, I wonder? Before the proprietor reports that sweet, charming English tourist is a queer? Before they're knocking down the door? They all can hear how much you love it, being sodomized. Maybe you could convince them to let you off if you gave them all a turn.” 

_—Erik!_ , Charles projects at him. He's a little quieter now, his moaning stifled as he presses his face against one arm. 

But he's still clenching white-knuckled at the headboard. He's still fucking himself back, trying to meet Erik's thrusts. He still _wants_ so much, all Erik can do is give him _more_. 

He reaches once more for Charles's sweat-damp hair, and pulls hard enough to make sure Charles can't muffle his cries. 

"Wipe their minds if you want to hide,” he growls. 

Charles lets go of the headboard with one hand, and shakily, he tries to bring it toward his head. 

He'd wondered, but this is the first time Erik _truly_ considered that Charles might not know if the room beside theirs is vacant or not, that Charles could even _be_ that out of control. 

It's a heady notion. 

Erik lets him get _near_ to touching his temple. Then he slams into him bodily, forceful enough that Charles has no choice but to catch himself again, to support both hands on the headboard as Erik fucks him harder. And as he does, Charles groans even louder, shuddering like that alone—the thought of discovery or the knowledge he'd be helpless before it, Erik doesn't know which—is enough to make him come. 

If Charles was already almost painfully tight, the way his body clenches down as he climaxes makes him impossibly more so. Adding that to the way Charles broadcasts his own pleasure, unfiltered and unscreened, and the inescapable knowledge that _Erik_ is the one causing it—

Erik fights it. He doesn't want to come, doesn't want this to end yet. He wants to keep fucking Charles, forcing his way deep into him now that he's limp and pliable, oversensitive and sore, feeling it all the more and still welcoming Erik in.

Try as he might, though, Erik can't hold back any longer. He gives one last hard thrust as he pins Charles roughly against the headboard, grunting as he orgasms and spills himself into that tight heat.

For a moment Erik's mind is completely blank, white and silent and peaceful and empty.

Then he hears Charles's voice in his head. _I apologize, my dear, but I do need to breathe…_

Erik lets them drop onto the bed, still locked together. It's another minute before he pulls himself together enough to lift his weight off of Charles and roll over to his side.

Charles hisses through his teeth when Erik pulls out. Erik eyes him carefully, a small thread of worry beginning to rise up on him. Charles's arse is still an angry red, there are bruises forming everywhere Erik held him, and his hole looks stretched and used and sore. But there's no blood, nothing but a small trickle of Erik's semen escaping. 

Erik curls his fingers into a fist against the urge to push it back in, finger Charles again and spread it around.

Erik continues to stare at Charles for a considerable while. Charles hasn't moved since they finished, lying on his stomach in a boneless sprawl, face buried in the comforter and hidden away from Erik's view. Erik would think he was asleep or passed out, if not for the mental link that Charles hasn't fully disconnected, the vague background thrum of his consciousness.

Erik reaches out and places his palm wide across the span of Charles's back, so that he can feel the sturdy knobs of his spine beneath his hand.

Charles makes a soft wordless noise of inquiry.

Erik can't quite tell how aware Charles is right now, can't tell if he can sense the flicker of uncertainty that's come over Erik, now that he's no longer in the moment and can think clearly once again.

He shouldn't say anything. It's ridiculous. He felt Charles in his head the entire time; Erik knows exactly how much Charles loved and craved it all. Any brutality or cruelty or pain he might have inflicted on Charles was at Charles's express invitation.

Erik isn't anxious. He isn't indecisive. He certainly doesn't need reassurance from anyone. This is ridiculous.

He strokes his fingers through the cooling sweat pooled in the small of Charles's back. "That was—good?" He clears his throat. "That was what you wanted. It wasn't… too much."

Charles stirs, and with what appears to be a Herculean effort, turns his head to meet Erik's eyes.

"It was wonderful, Erik," he says. "Masterly. Bravo. I'd give you a standing ovation if I thought myself capable of standing at the moment."

Erik huffs out a breath, the tension in him dissipating. He feels absurd for having asked anything at all, but Charles's mind is so languid and fucked-out and still entwined with Erik's thoughts. It's swiftly becoming impossible to be anything else than exhausted, and Erik stops fighting it. Stretching on his side beside Charles, he lets himself relax completely. 

He's sore, especially in his knees and hips, as if he'd been running for hours. Charles yawns as Erik keeps massaging idly at the sweet curve of his lower back. 

"Good,” Erik says, trying not to yawn himself. Being surrounded by Charles's powers is like being covered with a heavy, thick blanket, but he doesn't want to pass out just yet. 

It's addictive, to be like this, to be present and sated at Charles's side. He traces up the strong lines of Charles's back once more before rolling over. He flicks his hand up slightly, drawing the cigarette case and lighter from his suit jacket. 

Charles manages to rustle up the energy to move a few inches, draping himself heavily over Erik's chest, like a seal on a rock. 

"Hey, now,” Charles protests, frowning down at him. 

"It wasn't meant as an insult,” Erik says, pulling out one cigarette and bringing it to his mouth to light it. He's being too complacent, letting Charles in his mind so deeply, entwined so tightly that Charles reads every passing thought. But right now—he inhales, bringing the smoke into his lungs, savoring the weight of Charles's body as his chest rises. 

"Light one for me, would you?"

Erik grunts in affirmation. He removes the already lit cigarette from his own mouth and hands it to Charles, who takes it delicately between two fingers. The feeling of satisfaction that Charles shares as he smokes might be better than doing it himself, Erik thinks. By the time he's gotten a new cigarette out and lit for himself, Charles is exhaling with a contented sigh. 

The smoke rises between them in a lazy ring.

"Show off," Erik says.

"I've told you before, I learned quite a bit at Oxford," Charles replies, which is a true enough statement. If Charles wasn't so brilliant, if his scientific mind wasn't so advanced, if he weren't so passionate about all of it, Erik might be inclined to suspect that his university years were just taken up by drink and smoke and sex.

"I'm not sure whether I should be insulted by that," Charles murmurs, "but I suppose I'll let it go for now."

"Good." Erik reaches up to stroke a little at Charles's hair. It's messy now, sweaty and yanked around as it has been, but it's still thick and soft and irresistible, and Charles leans his head slightly into Erik's palm.

Erik doesn't understand why he feels like this, this desire or compulsion to keep touching, keep connected to Charles even now, when they're no longer fucking. But it feels right in some deep corner of his soul, and so he indulges himself, letting his fingers play with Charles's hair and then the nape of his neck as they silently smoke.

Once the cigarettes are done, stubbed out in the ashtray on the nightstand, Charles yawns again. He lifts himself up and off of Erik's chest, and Erik immediately misses his weight.

"Where are you going?"

"Mm," Charles says, "I need a glass of water, I think. I'm parched."

"I'll get it for you," Erik says. He doesn't let himself reflect on this too closely as he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress. He can feel Charles's eyes on him even as he crosses the room, pulling his robe out of the closet and wrapping it around his body, and so he's not surprised when he turns around and catches Charles gazing at him with frank appreciation.

The ice machine is down the hall, around two corners, and Erik passes empty room after empty room as he follows his sense of the metal toward it. He lets himself stand for a few moments next to the machine, by himself. He's not thinking of anything in particular. This far away from the room, the overwhelming force of Charles's wayward telepathy shouldn't be as much of an issue, especially since Charles is no longer out of control, and yet—and yet this feeling is still here in his chest, this unfamiliar strum, breathless and terrifying and comforting all at once. 

So it's not Charles's doing, then. At least not directly.

When he returns to the room, Charles has moved to the other, unsoiled bed, and slipped beneath the covers. He takes the glass of water from Erik with gratitude, swallowing down eagerly. It shows off the long, enticing column of his neck, which is vaguely annoying.

Erik strips off the robe once more, and climbs into bed beside Charles. Charles curls in towards him, and Erik closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, the scent of cigarette smoke and the two of them still heavy in the air.

"It occurs to me," Erik says slowly and thoughtfully, "that I never did tell you you were allowed to come tonight."

"That's true," Charles acknowledges.

"We'll have to work on that for next time," Erik says, and a pleased, surprised smile spreads across Charles's face. 

"Don't worry," Charles says, "I have plenty of ideas for next time. And the time after that, even."

Erik can't help grinning back at Charles. "I'm sure that you do.” Still addicted to the simple sensation of Charles's soft hair twining around his fingers, Erik finds himself wrapping an arm around his shoulders, idly smoothing Charles's hair. 

"I suppose,” he continues, "I'll just have to indulge you.” 

"I'm sure we can arrange something mutually beneficial,” Charles says, and Erik doesn't need to see his face to know the exact curve of his smirk. 

Erik shifts slightly, and Charles moves with him. It's so odd, how comfortable it's become to sleep with another person. Charles always settles with his weight half on Erik's chest, and it should be suffocating. Erik should hate it, that he's being held down. 

But in this, too…He wonders, still petting Charles. Maybe it's like everything else they do behind these walls. Maybe it doesn't say anything about him as a person. If he wants this, the comfortable solidity of Charles on him, what's the harm in taking? 

Charles brushes an idle kiss against his shoulder, and mumbles something unintelligible. It's possible he's still listening in, but more likely, he's already dozing. 

"Maybe we can,” Erik murmurs, and his hands drift down to rest gently on the curve of Charles's back.


	3. epilogue

The diner is almost deserted; they both slept later than usual this morning, and by the time they made it out of the hotel and out toward breakfast, the morning rush had ended. There's no hurry, though, since they're not meeting up with Angel again for hours yet, giving her time to sleep and pack and tie up loose ends before they shepherd her off to the others. There's plenty of time for the two of them to sit here, lingering over eggs and toast.

The coffee is terrible, but Erik loads it up with sugar to make it palatable, in quantities that still provoke a raising of Charles's eyebrows, even after all the mornings he's witnessed Erik's habits. It tastes better this way; why take it bitter if it's no more cost or effort to have it like this?

Charles is cheerful and talkative this morning, full of vim and vigor. Erik can read in his movements the soreness and stiffness he's still feeling from last night, but it's not nearly as much as he would have expected. He doubts, really, that anyone else would notice. 

It could be just as if it had never happened at all, Erik muses, sitting back against the torn vinyl of the booth as he listens to Charles expound upon his point.

Except—even as he's thinking it, Charles happens to make a particularly expressive gesture with his forkful of eggs. The dramatic movement of his arm causes the fabric of his sweater to slide down his forearm an inch or so, just far enough to expose his wrist, which is completely mottled with bruises all across the pale skin.

Erik can't even remember making those bruises last night. Was it from when they were in bed together? Or earlier, holding Charles in that alleyway? He can't pin it down.

But either way, they're _there_ , and they're _real_ ; they exist even here and now, in public, in their life that goes beyond those confined spaces, and Erik…

Erik finds he doesn't mind. He likes seeing them, likes the tangible knowledge that he's made a mark on Charles as undeniable as anything Charles has done to him. 

"Are you even listening to me, Erik?" Charles says.

"Not really," Erik admits. "Though in my defense, you do talk quite a lot, Charles. I'm not sure you can blame me for drifting off occasionally."

Charles snorts and shakes his head, though Erik can tell he's not annoyed as he'd like to pretend. "If you're done nursing your swill, let's pay and get back on the road."

Erik bows his head in acknowledgment, and as Charles rises from their booth, Erik swallows down the rest of his mug and then stands to follow Charles out and into the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> DO CHECK OUT Kirby's [FANTASTIC ART](http://cockslutcharles.tumblr.com/post/143765309632/pearlo-panzercat-firstlightofeos-pls-apologize) for this fic (NSFW, as uh, you might imagine). :D

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I want to feel it in my throat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7514692) by [AsexualMagneto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsexualMagneto/pseuds/AsexualMagneto)




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